


like a bird turning its wings to the sky

by featherx



Series: requests [25]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Praise Kink, top linhardt/bottom ignatz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24556411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: The painting is still all wrong.Ignatz stares at the splashes of colors on the canvas, feeling his vision beginning to waver. The candle on the desk beside him has long since burned over halfway down, but he can’t bring himself to stand up and replace it or grab a lantern. He’s fairly sure it’s only a few more hours until sunrise, too, even if his sense of time has blurred from the constancy of wartime. How long, exactly, has he been sitting here before this accursed canvas and redoing everything over and over?
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Ignatz Victor
Series: requests [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1388335
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	like a bird turning its wings to the sky

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: top linhardt/bottom ignatz with praise kink  
> i've only written ignatz a grand total of once & i've definitely never written for this rarepair before, but i hope i kept them mostly in character anyway ;; as always, thanks for requesting! ❤
> 
> title from [like a bird by golden suits](https://open.spotify.com/track/3P8ejC8FgLs8hheiIETzDv?si=qH9_-I8RTUObrWJ-rhpIPQ)

The painting is still all wrong.

Ignatz stares at the splashes of colors on the canvas, feeling his vision beginning to waver. The candle on the desk beside him has long since burned over halfway down, but he can’t bring himself to stand up and replace it or grab a lantern. He’s fairly sure it’s only a few more hours until sunrise, too, even if his sense of time has blurred from the constancy of wartime. How long, exactly, has he been sitting here before this accursed canvas and redoing everything over and over?

He sighs and sets the paintbrush down, flexing the kinks out of his cramping fingers. His entire body is sore from sitting for so long, and Ignatz carefully stands to stretch as quietly as possible—the crack his back makes practically echoes in his room all the same. With the motions comes a twinge of guilt of moving at all, though; his art is nowhere near finished nor perfect, and yet he’s already contemplating rest?

The blankets shift audibly behind him. “Ignatz.” A yawn. “You… Why are you awake.” With how sleep-laden the voice is, the question comes out sounding more like a statement.

Ignatz manages a smile and turns around to face his bed. “Sorry, Linhardt—did I wake you up?”

“Mm…” Linhardt blinks blearily. His hair is mussed, sleep still sticking to his lashes, and he’s all tangled up in the sheets that Ignatz can’t tell where blanket ends and long, pale limb begins. Despite all that, with the moonlight streaming in through the window, he’s still beautiful in a way that Ignatz can never properly portray. “What are you doing… come back.”

“I’m sorry,” Ignatz apologizes again, the words mostly habit by this point. “Just a little longer.”

“Whatever that is can wait ‘til tomorrow, can’t it?”

“Well…” Ignatz can’t exactly say that Linhardt had completely ruined what Ignatz had been working on by waking up, so he goes with, “It’ll only take another minute.”

“Sure,” Linhardt mutters, perfectly unconvinced. He lifts his gaze to stare at the painting, which Ignatz hadn’t bothered to hide—if he’d covered the canvas with some cloth, Linhardt probably would have just blown it away with a Wind spell anyway—and as Ignatz had half-expected, his lips curl up in a little smirk. “Oh?”

“I just had to paint you,” Ignatz sighs, turning back to face the canvas. It’s somehow gotten even _worse_ in the few minutes Ignatz had looked away from it. Already he can see mistakes in the colors he’d used, in the lighting, the body proportions—Linhardt’s face is longer, the line of his jaw sharper, his lashes longer, his hair a darker shade of green.

“Well then, I must apologize.” Linhardt plops his head back down on the pillow, but no amount of rearranging would lead to a perfect repeat of the pose he’d been in while asleep. “I must have ruined your reference.”

“N-No, nothing like—”

“I’m teasing. Will you _please_ come to bed now?”

“But—” Ignatz worries down on his lower lip. He isn’t finished yet, it isn’t perfect yet, he has to make it better than the best he can give, because it’s the only way someone will acknowledge that art is more than just a hobby for him—

“Ignatz.” Linhardt’s voice is low, gentle, and it reminds Ignatz of the river near his home back in Leicester, where it always sparkled and reflected the sunlight during the spring. “The canvas will be there in the morning. Don’t stress.”

Linhardt’s right. With another sigh, Ignatz gives the painting one last glance before he throws off the old shirt he uses for painting and clambers back into his bed beside Linhardt. The spot he had once occupied is terribly cold, and now he feels awful about leaving Linhardt alone, even with the blankets—being from the warmer Adrestian Empire means Linhardt absolutely detests the cold, what with all the layers he wears everyday.

“Better,” Linhardt murmurs, nuzzling his face into the crook of Ignatz’s neck. His breath fans over Ignatz’s skin, and Ignatz has to suppress a shudder. “You know it doesn’t have to be perfect to be art.”

Linhardt’s told him these same words over and over, from their academy days all the way until now, and somehow he never seems to tire of them. “I-I know, but…”

“But?”

“Um… you know, it _has_ to be perfect. Because… it’s you. And you’re perfect, Linhardt.”

Linhardt draws away slightly to give Ignatz a deadpan look. “Don’t try to sweeten me up with words like those. That’s _my_ job.”

“It’s true,” Ignatz insists, sitting up so that he can look down at Linhardt. Linhardt blinks blandly up at him, his eyes a blue so reminiscent of the ocean, Ignatz thinks he could drown in them. “You’re… I never feel like I deserve you sometimes. It’s—I mean, you’re… you’re you, Linhardt. You’re smart and beautiful and talented and so many other things, and I’m just… me.”

A knight who can’t be an artist, an artist who can’t be a knight. Ignatz’s life seemed to be made up of contradictions he couldn’t pull apart and make sense of. Linhardt, with all his intelligence, is destined for success in the future, whether as a healer or a researcher on Crests or whatever his heart may tug him towards. Ignatz, on the other hand, can barely even focus on the present—when he isn’t good enough at fighting to be a knight, and when he isn’t good enough at art to be an artist, where does his fate lie?

Linhardt tilts his head slightly, untied hair falling over his eyes. “You do hear yourself right now, right?”

“I… Yes?”

“Then I think I’m well within my rights to call you a bit of an idiot for thinking that way,” Linhardt says, sounding so genuinely _annoyed_ that Ignatz can’t come up with a response to that right away. What sort of person got bothered when complimented? “You really need to stop putting yourself down, Ignatz,” Linhardt sighs, reaching up to swipe a drop of paint off Ignatz’s cheek. “You are also smart and beautiful and talented. What on earth ever makes you think you aren’t?”

“Well, that’s…”

“No, never mind, I don’t want to know,” Linhardt mutters, which is good, because Ignatz had drawn a blank trying to remember when thoughts like these began to take over his mind. “What matters is that _I_ think you are, and everyone else who thinks otherwise can fall off a cliff for all I care.”

“Linhardt, I… don’t think that’s something you should be saying. You know, as a healer.”

“If you trust me as a healer, you might as well trust me as judge, jury, and executioner.” With an impressive show of effort, Linhardt pushes himself up so that he’s sitting as well, laying one of his hands atop Ignatz’s. “Listen. Just because you think you aren’t important doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Ignatz swallows. “But—”

“You are.”

“B—”

“You are.” And then, before Ignatz can even open his mouth, Linhardt says, “You are. I am a very patient man, you know, I can do this as long as you like. So I recommend stopping now.”

Ignatz can’t help a soft laugh. “At least listen to me.”

“Let me guess.” Linhardt arches a single perfect brow. “Because your parents convinced you to give up art, but you feel that’s the one thing you’re good at, so you’ve automatically written yourself off as unimportant. Compared to everyone else, you feel that you can’t compare because they excel in things that you perceive as ‘better’ than art. Am I right? No need to answer, because I know I am.”

Ignatz wonders why he even bothers sometimes, when it feels like Linhardt has him completely and entirely figured out. “But… well… it’s true?”

Linhardt heaves a long-suffering sigh. “How many times—it _isn’t true,_ Ignatz. You are important just by existing. Do I need to convince you some other way? Because words clearly aren’t working.”

“Some other way?” Ignatz repeats, feeling his brow furrow in confusion.

Linhardt tugs on his wrist in a clear prompt to come closer, so Ignatz dutifully lowers himself—only for Linhardt’s loose grip to tighten so that he flips Ignatz over to lie on his back while Linhardt shifts to kneel in front of his legs. “Dear me,” Linhardt says, flatly, but with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I’d expect our master marksman to have better reflexes than this.”

“L-Linhardt?” Ignatz stammers—the look Linhardt is giving him, all half-lidded eyes and curling smile, are doing _things_ to his heart that make Ignatz want to simultaneously bust out of the room and let Linhardt have his way with him.

“You won’t believe me if I simply tell you.” Linhardt runs a finger up Ignatz’s upper leg, starting from his knee and reaching all the way to his inner thigh. “So will you let me show you instead?”

Ignatz’s tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth. Whenever they… sleep together, it’s usually Ignatz putting in more of an effort—he wants to, of course, because laving attention all over Linhardt draws out such pretty faces and sounds that Ignatz can’t help but grow addicted to seeing what else he can bring out of Linhardt when his usually stoic composure comes undone. And it isn’t that Linhardt _doesn’t_ put in effort. He does. He just usually… prefers not to move too much.

Ignatz thought he’d be fine never having Linhardt on top. Clearly, his past self was a fool, because now Ignatz’s thoughts are racing with possibilities, and he’s already beginning to feel a strain in his underwear. “Ah… um…”

Linhardt blinks. “Well, unless you don’t want to, of course. Just say the word.”

“N-No! I do want it. I do.” Ignatz tries to will the heat out of his cheeks—he sounds so _desperate._ But it’s not like anyone can blame him, when he’s suddenly being faced with something he hadn’t known he’d wanted until, well, ten seconds ago. “But, just… are you sure _you_ want th—”

“Enough with that. Can’t you put yourself before others for once?” Linhardt is already reaching for the oil on the dresser drawer, and Ignatz watches in trepidation as Linhardt unscrews it open. “I’d almost prefer it if you were a bit more selfish. You know, order me around, the like…”

Ignatz winces. “I… don’t know if I’d ever be able to do that, actually.”

“It takes practice,” Linhardt agrees, as if he has any knowledge of the topic. Ignatz means to ask him exactly that, but the words catch in his throat when Linhardt hooks a finger down the band of his smallclothes and tugs them down, humming appreciatively at the erection that bobs out. “Oh, hm. I see, I see.”

“Why do you sound like you’re researching something?” Ignatz asks, slightly distressed.

Linhardt stares at his cock a little longer until Ignatz starts squirming—whether from discomfort or impatience, even Ignatz himself can’t tell—and Linhardt gets the message. “I never really get the opportunity to _admire_ it, you know. Do you mind if I…”

Without warning, he bends down to drag his tongue down Ignatz’s cock, and Ignatz lets out an undignified squeak, his legs automatically rising off the bed—Linhardt _snickers,_ the little bastard. “That looked like it felt good.”

“L-Lin…”

“What? Would you like more, love?” Linhardt flicks his tongue over the head of his cock, and Ignatz gasps breathlessly, arms reflexively rising to hide his face. But Linhardt clicks his tongue in disapproval and pulls Ignatz’s arm away, much to Ignatz’s confusion. “Don’t hide yourself. There’s nothing to hide, not when you’re so beautiful.”

Ignatz feels the flush on his face reach all the way to the tips of his ears. “W… What?”

“Do you need me to say it again?”

“That’s… I… Y-You can’t just say things like those out of nowhere, I…”

“That’s a shame. I’d love to see what else you like to hear.” Linhardt bites a kiss at the soft skin of his inner thigh, then licks a trail down to his hole—Ignatz whimpers, biting down hard enough on his lower lip to draw blood. Arousal tingles in his veins, wiping out all other rational thought he might have had. “Tell me you want this?”

Ignatz breathes in, breathes out, reaches up to grab hold of the sheets above him. “I… want this. I want you, Linhardt.”

“I thought so,” Linhardt hums. Ignatz squeezes his eyes shut and tries to relax when he feels Linhardt’s slick fingers circle his entrance, slow and almost soothing. For the most part, Ignatz tries to focus on breathing, because once Linhardt slips a single digit inside, something that had seemed very simple for most of his life has suddenly become too difficult to concentrate on, not when Linhardt feels so _good_ inside. And that’s only _one_ finger. “Oh, you’re so cute,” Linhardt just about purrs, his voice sleek as velvet. “So darling, Ignatz.”

Something hot races down Ignatz’s spine at the words—he can’t explain how it makes him feel, only that suddenly he needs more of that, whatever it is. “Lin, that… I…”

Linhardt looks up at him, looking genuinely confused. “What is it?”

“Can you… um, could you…” Ignatz feels ready to spontaneously combust. How is he even supposed to ask for Linhardt to praise him some more? As if he even deserves any of what Linhardt is saying—

“Oh, alright. Of course.” And then, without skipping a beat, Linhardt sinks his finger in until the knuckle—Ignatz jerks his hips upwards with a yelp. It feels so much different from when he does it himself, alone, and the desire for more, to have Linhardt _truly_ inside him, is so overwhelming that Ignatz has to focus on breathing again, if only to give his mind something to fixate on without going absolutely haywire.

In a low whisper, Linhardt says, “Good boy. You’re taking me so well, Ignatz.”

The effect is immediate—Ignatz whimpers, scrabbles at the sheets for some semblance of steadiness. One more sweet word and he thinks he might just melt into the bed in a puddle of love. “L-Linhardt, I… that…”

“You know you don’t have to ask if you want me to tell you these things.” Linhardt eases another finger inside, his lips quirking upwards as Ignatz arches his back, chases the feeling, tries to get more of Linhardt’s fingers deeper inside. “And don’t think this is something to feel guilty over or something. I’m not making any of this up. You _are_ a beauty, Ignatz. You’re like one of your own works of art. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the one who shouldn’t be touching you, in case I mar you with my own imperfections.”

“You could never,” Ignatz breathes. Speaking is hard, but the words come easy to him. “I love you, Lin, I… You’re—”

“Spare me the praise. Tonight is about you.” Linhardt bends down to press a chaste kiss to his lips, one Ignatz leans up into and tries to chase when Linhardt draws back, looking amused. He pushes his fingers in and out, in and out, scissoring lightly, and Ignatz can barely process anything further than that—by now he’s a sweating, gasping mess on the bed, gripping onto the blankets so hard he fears they’ll tear. “Ready?”

“Yes—yes, _please,_ Linhardt—”

Ignatz looks down to watch as Linhardt kicks his underwear off, revealing his cock hard and flush against his thigh. Ignatz has paid enough attention to that particular part of Linhardt that he knows exactly how it feels inside his mouth, but how it would feel inside _him_ is something entirely different. He swallows as Linhardt slicks himself up, beads of pre-cum mixing with the oil, and lifts his legs up when Linhardt lines himself up.

“Beautiful,” Linhardt sighs, and Ignatz feels his cock throb in pleasure. “You look gorgeous like this for me, darling. So good for me.”

He doesn’t give Ignatz time to recover from that before pushing in, and Ignatz has to keep himself from crying out loud enough for their neighbors in the other dorms to overhear. Ignatz hardly cares about size right now, only that it’s _Linhardt_ inside him, and the hand Linhardt lays atop Ignatz’s thigh is so tender he could cry. “Are you, er. Alright?”

“I’m fine, I—” Ignatz exhales harshly, blinking rapidly before he actually does cry like this is his first time. “I just… I love you. So much.”

There’s no response for a moment, and Ignatz looks up to see Linhardt’s cheeks colored a splotchy red from what is almost certainly embarrassment. “Oh,” Ignatz laughs, “did I say something strange this time? It’s the truth,” he adds, when Linhardt looks ready to fire off a defensive retort. “I love you, Linhardt. I don’t think I’ll ever stop either.”

“Don’t make promises,” Linhardt murmurs, still looking distinctly flustered. “I find they tend to be difficult to keep.”

“Not when it’s with you.”

Linhardt doesn’t reply right away again, and Ignatz doesn’t hold that against him—feelings like these don’t come easy to Linhardt, when he’s spent so much of his life suppressing most of them. So Ignatz tugs Linhardt down for another kiss, this one longer and sweeter and tasting of all the words he wants to tell Linhardt—that he’s beautiful, gorgeous, perfect.

But Linhardt had said that tonight was about Ignatz—which Ignatz assumes means there will be a night for Linhardt, too. He can wait until then for his turn.

“Okay—alright, enough tenderness, it’s making me sick,” Linhardt grumbles, but Ignatz can’t exactly take him seriously when he’s blushing such a dainty pink. “Lie down properly for me, will you?”

It’s the voice he uses when he’s making the effort to command his battalion on the battlefield, and Ignatz finds himself shivering at the tone—he lies down obediently, lifting his legs for Linhardt to get a good grip on his thighs. “Tell me if you need to stop,” Linhardt says, then adds, teasingly, “though I doubt you’ll need to.”

He sinks in to the base, and Ignatz bites out a moan. His cock is aching with need, and he knows he isn’t going to last long—one good stroke and he’s probably going to come right away. Ignatz focuses on Linhardt inside him instead, clenches around his cock and smiles shakily when Linhardt groans, eyes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “Ah… so good,” Linhardt gasps out, fingertips digging into Ignatz’s thighs, “you’re such… such a good boy for me.”

Linhardt’s pace starts off slow, unsure, before his own desire seems to catch up with him and he speeds up, eventually shifting just so to hit Ignatz’s prostate with every other thrust. Ignatz is practically writhing under him, gasping brokenly, bucking his hips in time with Linhardt’s movements, crying his name every time Linhardt’s cock brushes against his spot. His own neglected dick bounces between his thighs, trickling pre-cum down to pool on his stomach.

“I—I’m going to—” Linhardt moans, voice high and pretty, his breaths stuttering in his chest. “I’m c-close, Ignatz…”

“Me too—ah—” Ignatz lets go of the sheets, his fingers almost numb from the death grip they had been in, and reaches down to grab hold of his cock instead, pumping it to the rhythm of Linhardt’s thrusts. He’s seen Linhardt do this whenever their positions are reversed, and he feels his orgasm threaten to rip through him almost immediately. “Ah—o-oh, goddess, Lin, _please—_ ”

Ignatz can’t tell who comes first, because his climax wipes all coherent thought out of his mind for a few blissful seconds—in those moments it’s only him and Linhardt, and the pleasure coursing through his body like fire and electricity combined. Vaguely he registers Linhardt’s moan as he spills inside Ignatz, cock pulsing in his hole.

It takes several more seconds for them to recover—Linhardt slowly pulls out, wincing at the mess Ignatz can feel dripping out of him, and only has just enough energy to crawl over to the spot beside Ignatz before collapsing entirely with a tired groan. Ignatz spends an extra minute forcing energy back into his limbs before he can muster enough strength to sit up and grab the box of tissues on the dresser and start cleaning up. The stain on the sheets, though, is something the monastery staff will simply have to deal with on laundry day.

He doesn’t spend much time on the task, throwing the box back onto the dresser and pressing closer to Linhardt, pleasantly warm and already beginning to doze off. Ocean blue eyes blink open when Ignatz wraps his arms around him, though. “I think,” Linhardt mutters, “you shall have to notify me, oh, maybe a month in advance before we do this again. Tell the professor I simply cannot attend the meeting tomorrow…”

Ignatz smothers his laugh in Linhardt’s hair. “I love you, Lin. And… thank you. That mustn’t have been easy for you, hm?”

Linhardt is quiet, face resting against Ignatz’s chest, before he speaks again. “You know, I think you might be the only person who thinks me perfect.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m lazy. Unmotivated. Lethargic. Irresponsible.” Linhardt says all these like he’s reading from a grocery list of bad characteristics to stock up on next time they visit the marketplace. “I know I am. Doesn’t mean it gets any easier to hear from other people.”

Ignatz would sit up, but he really is too exhausted to move much, so he settles for giving Linhardt a stern look. “But—even so, I love you for who you are. Nothing you do can change that.”

“You say that,” Linhardt sighs, “and I suppose I have no choice but to believe you. But only if you believe what _I_ say about you, too. It’s not fair if I’m the only perfect one in this relationship. Either we’re both perfect or we’re both riddled with imperfections, got it?”

What a very Linhardt solution. Ignatz laughs again, and maybe it’s the afterglow of their love or how he’s on the verge of conking out, but instead of arguing like always, he says, “Okay, okay. We’re both perfect. Or we’re both not. It doesn’t really matter in the end, does it?”

“Yes.” Linhardt smiles, a small tender thing Ignatz wants to engrave in his heart forever. “As long as I love you, who cares what other people think in the end.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading (❁´◡`❁) if you liked this, check out [this tweet](https://twitter.com/featherxs/status/1239788477807349760)!
> 
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